


Must Be Mad

by squilf



Series: Ten Kinds of Terrifying [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Intimacy, Living Together, M/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2020-02-04 15:18:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18607180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squilf/pseuds/squilf
Summary: There are some things none of us understand. Things like falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.





	Must Be Mad

**Author's Note:**

> I originally published this on [LiveJournal](https://squilf.livejournal.com/9294.html) and [FanFiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7786025/1/Must-Be-Mad) for Johnlock Day 2012, the anniversary of the day Sherlock Holmes met John Watson.

 

There are some things that none of us can understand. Things that never fail to confuse us, no matter how many nights you stare up at the ceiling in your narrow bed, wrapped in rough sheets that smell of cheap detergent, and try to understand. Things like why you’re so alone. Things like life now that you’ve swapped a burning sun for a faceless city. Things like falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.

John doesn’t know how it started. He doesn’t know when – _if_ – it’ll end. He just knows that it’s there, this knot in his chest, and he can’t untie it, because his fingers are clumsy and numb and they betray him. Their lives overlap, intertwine, and he’s all so entangled in Sherlock’s life now that they’ve become blurred, their shapes bled together, and he can’t see where Sherlock ends and where he begins. And John’s tied up in his mess, his madness, and maybe that’s alright, because maybe that’s how they’re supposed to be.

John files away hundreds of little things, moments with Sherlock he wants to remember, and now they’re stacking up on his heart, pushing him down. Things like the evening he touches John’s shoulder, long fingers trailing across his neck, as he says goodnight. Things like the afternoon he drops a kiss on Mrs Hudson’s cheek when she brings him a cup of tea. Things like the morning John’s so tired he drifts off on the sofa, and wakes up with his head in Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock’s reading through some files, fingers lazily stroking John’s hair. And John can’t ignore this, can’t forget about it, can’t pretend it doesn’t matter, because it does, it matters more than he can say.

So he spends days screaming silently into the sky, because this is Sherlock Holmes, the world’s most difficult, infuriating, ridiculous, wonderful man, and he must be mad, he must be mad. It’s burning him out, pressing him down, but he can’t tell him. This hurts enough already. Sherlock has John’s heart, and John can’t give him the chance to break it. Because he knows he will. He’ll break him. He’ll burn him. He swears to God, that man will be the death of him. But what a death it will be.

And one day, he can’t hold it in anymore. It just spills out of him, and he can’t stop the tide from coming in. It happens one wet night in January. John’s leaning against a police car, blue light splashing across the street, rain streaking his face, the sky above him smeared with clouds. He’s tired and cold, and he would be utterly miserable if it wasn’t for Sherlock. Because Sherlock is Sherlock. Quick, clever, alert, alive. Three parts exasperating, one part beautiful, and all of him is completely brilliant. He analyses, examines, eyes cold and mechanical, and John doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite so wonderful. Then Sherlock catches his eye, and his face falls into something soft. He mutters a few words to Lestrade, takes John’s arm, and drags him into a taxi. John looks through the steamed-up windows, bleary-eyed, sees blinking lights behind beaded raindrops, bites his lip. They traipse back into the flat. Sherlock half-carries him to his bed, and John pulls him down, hand tugging on his scarf. They sprawl on the bed in their soaked coats, sheets sodden.

“You,” says John, voice low, “Are amazing.”

And he kisses him, slow and sleepy. He tangles his hand in Sherlock’s hair, matted with rain, feels his hot breath against his face.

“John.”

Sherlock leans their foreheads together, entwines their cold fingers. And it’s like he’s trying to ask a question, but he doesn’t know how to say it, so he just says “John,” again and kisses him softly until he’s asleep.

John wakes up with sunlight in his eyes. It’s dim in his room, morning light muted by the thin curtains. Sherlock’s sitting on his bed, legs crossed, watching him as if he’s the most complicated and fragile thing in the world, and he’s terrified of breaking him. John groans, hauls himself upright, looks down at the rucked-up sheets because he can’t bear to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock – last night – you – we could just forget about it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not – because you don’t –”

John sighs and rubs his face with the heel of his hand.

“Look, Sherlock, it’s fine. You don’t have to – I was –”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock says, and then he leans forward and kisses him.

He pushes John down onto the bed, hands on his shoulders, and holds him down. He kisses him, tongue and teeth, bites his lower lip. And they’re both tied up in this mess, this madness, but maybe it’s alright, because maybe this is how they’re supposed to be.

“Sherlock.”

John smiles, leans their foreheads together, traces the line of Sherlock’s jaw with his finger.

“I know,” Sherlock whispers.

They don’t say it. Not just yet.

And now they’re even more tangled up in each other than ever, and some days it works, and some days it doesn’t. Some days they fight and some days they don’t talk and some days Sherlock catches John looking at him in the same way he did that wet January night and he just has to kiss that look off his face. They stumble along like they always have done, but there’s something more to it now, something different.

John never fails to confuse Sherlock, no matter how many nights he kisses his neck, wrapped in soft sheets that smell like him, and tries to understand. He files away hundreds of little things, moments with John he wants to remember, and it feels like his chest is two sizes too small for his heart, because it’s so full of them. Things like the evening they’re walking home in the dark, footsteps echoing on the pavement, and John slips his hand into Sherlock’s. Things like the afternoon Mycroft comes over and John drops a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek when he brings them some tea, and it’s worth it just to see the way Mycroft’s eyebrow raises in surprise. Things like the morning Sherlock wakes up, John cradled in his arms, so much smaller than him, and John’s looking at him, and he must have been awake for a while now, listening to his breathing.

So he spends days screaming silently into the sky, because this is John Watson, the world’s most loyal, kind, brave, wonderful man, and John must be mad, he must be mad, because why else would he stay with Sherlock, why else would he want this. But Sherlock can’t tell him. Can’t tell him that he has Sherlock’s heart, what little of it there is, and John can break him, John can burn him, and Sherlock won’t care, he won’t care one bit. He loves him far too much. He swears to God, that man will be the death of him.

And one day, he can’t hold it in anymore. It just spills out of him, and he can’t stop the tide from coming in. It happens one wet morning in January, one year since he first kissed John Watson. John comes home, hair stuck to his forehead, and dumps two plastic shopping bags on the kitchen table, raindrops streaking his face.

“No arguments with the self-service checkout today?” asks Sherlock, glancing up from his microscope.

“No,” says John, unpacking the bags, plastic rustling, “I got a human to argue with instead.”

“That usually tends to be more fulfilling.”

John fills the fridge with the shopping, taking care not to disturb any of Sherlock’s experiments.

“This woman on the checkout overcharged me by at least twenty pounds. An adult, about my age, and she couldn’t add up my groceries.”

“Was she pretty?”

John stops what he’s doing.

“What?”

“The woman on the checkout. Was she pretty?”

Sherlock looks up, meets John’s eyes. John blinks, frowns at him.

“Are you _jealous_ of a woman who I had an argument with at Tesco’s?”

“You’re avoiding the question. Was she pretty?”

John folds his arms.

“You know Sherlock, I really wasn’t looking, because if it hasn’t escaped your attention, I’m in love with you.”

And Sherlock can’t stop himself, because John said it, he said the words that Sherlock couldn’t, and he jumps out of his chair and pushes John against the kitchen table. He kisses him, long and slow and hungry, arms wrapped around his back.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers, leaning down, his face pressed against John’s.

“I know. Sherlock, I know.”

“I never said so.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“But John – I should have said – I don’t know why I didn’t –”

“Oh, shut up,” says John, and he stands up on tiptoe and kisses him.

There are some things that none of us can understand. And there are some things that none of us need to. Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean it can’t be beautiful. Some knots aren’t meant to be untied. Some things are best left the way they are. Things like why you’re so happy. Things like life now that you’ve swapped loneliness for the love of a man you don’t know that you deserve. Things like falling in love with John Watson.

And maybe this is alright, because maybe this is how you’re supposed to be.  



End file.
